


What Do The Dead Know?

by OneHandedBooks



Series: We Are But Dust and Shadows [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dark Abigail, Dark Will, Edging, F/M, Hannibal is a one man compounding pharmacy, M/M, Manipulative!Hannibal, Masturbation, Multi, Murder Husbands, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Play, aka hannibal is a canon compliant manipulative jerk, an excessive amount of Pablo Neruda, love blood and rhetoric, sort of non con sort of voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 14:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4791311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneHandedBooks/pseuds/OneHandedBooks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>He looks up at her, haloed by the sun. She could be anyone. No one. St. Abigail, patron of lilies and last chances. </em> </p><p>AU: What if Will joined Hannibal willingly after the Uffizi Gallery and they shared a few tense weeks in the world before Mason's men finally ran them down? In which Will writes, hallucinates, and succumbs to the dark side and Hannibal is a manipulative, brainwashing, bastard.</p><p>Per a reader's request,  I am adding a warning to this summary. This story contains Will/Abigail, which you may find pseudo-incestuous or otherwise unpleasant depending on how you feel about that pairing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Do The Dead Know?

**Author's Note:**

> In this part of the story I am the one who dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you, because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood." -Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets

**What do the dead know?**

**_“_ ** _I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”  Pablo Neruda, Sonnet XVII_

Movement in the townhouse on the other side of their courtyard catches Will’s eye as he’s typing on the terrace of the second floor study.  He’s been trying to finish a supplement to his monograph on time of death by insect activity, ( _not that I can ever publish it with half the world’s police looking for us_ ), tapping away for days, waiting for tourist season to break, for Hannibal’s last _acqua alta_ to start, but so far it’s not going well. It’s going terribly, if he’s being honest, and he’s easily distracted. 

He can hear Hannibal in the kitchen, always in the fucking kitchen these days, chopping away. Slicing zucchini, and tomatoes, and garlic, and whatever else he’s picked up in the local markets. Will can hear the interminable clicking of his blade against the cutting board, and Hannibal humming, and fucking _Faust_ again, and it’s all just starting to grate on his nerves.  They are starting to grate on each other’s nerves. A frightening thought. Unbearable after everything it has cost him to make it to this point.

It’s been too hot for too long and hardly anyone has been suitably rude to them. Hannibal hasn’t touched him in days and the strain of staying hidden in plain sight is threatening to rip apart their polite domestic fakery. If only it would rain, Will thinks. If only it would storm, that would be something. But the air is still and heavy. He can feel sweat trickling down his side under his shirt and across the smile Hannibal gave him.

 Will takes off his new glasses and rubs his hand across his face. He has a strange subaudible sense of his fingers brushing over a deep gash in his right cheek, but it fades as quickly as it came, barely noticed. He is still three years from a date with a knife and the North Atlantic, but that future is already in motion.

Will feels restless in these narrow streets with their little shops so close together, but he is learning his way, for Hannibal. It seems to please him to send Will out for this or that trifling thing and see how long it takes him to wend his way back through the madding crowds. Will indulges this petty ritual amusement in the hopes of postponing a bloodier one. Besides, Hannibal has promised they will leave soon. Once Hannibal has memorized Venice to his satisfaction, they can sail south. Hannibal promised. Will has charted them a course through the Adriatic and the Mediterranean, through the Marmara at Istanbul, and onward into the Black Sea. It’s time to put some distance between us and the West, Will thinks. We can’t sustain this. Tempt fate much longer and it won’t take an act of God to bring us down; Interpol will take care of it for Him.

For the last few days, instead of writing diligently, which he should be doing, or slapping himself awake and running back to Wolf Trap, which he should also be doing, he’s been distracting himself by watching the new neighbors. Two American women have moved into the dilapidated old townhouse across from theirs and started renovating it. He’s seen them around the neighborhood several times.  Last week, he met the dark-haired one at the mercato. She juggled apples for a small boy waiting bored beside his mother, as she haggled over peaches, and made him smile.  He believes the girl’s name is Monaco, although that seems unlikely now that he thinks of it.  She reminds him of someone.

He’s heard that Monica, or whatever her name actually is, is also a psychiatrist and that her wife is some sort of producer.  They seem tailor-made for Hannibal really. Monique and her wife have had other people from the neighborhood over to dinner, but not them, of course. They’re not being very sociable these days. And it’s not like they can host a goddamn dinner party themselves, can they? Risk exposure now when they’ve gotten away so clean? ( _too clean_ ) Although he honestly wouldn’t put it past Hannibal.

What’s caught his attention just now is Mina, or whoever, opening the new French doors to her terrace.  She’s wearing a long grey skirt and a loose, white shirt that’s sticking to her in the heat. He watches her drag her chaise lounge into a shady corner and under a tall potted lilac. She disappears inside briefly and returns with a bottle of wine and a stack of books.  It’s a good day for a book and a bottle of wine, he thinks. A hot, lazy, ( _boring, maddeningly polite_ ) Sunday afternoon.  No wonder he’s having trouble working. 

He decides she’s got the right idea; some wine would be excellent and it might even take the edge off this terrible ratcheting tension that Hannibal seems to be very deliberately cultivating. When he returns with an open bottle from the kitchen counter ( _where has hannibal gone off to?)_ he sees Marilyn lying on her back on the chaise with a book in one hand and a glass of wine on a small dark table at her side.  He settles back at his laptop, shifting himself slightly at the table so he has a better view of her, although he denies this to himself.

He can feel the wine relaxing his muscles and smoothing his concerns about the monograph, about Hannibal, about all of it.  He rotates his shoulders and stretches his arms up, pulling against old wounds. He twists his spine to relax his back and rubs a hand along the weekend scruff.  A light breeze sweeps across the courtyard, lifts his dark curls and brings the smell of lilac from Monaco’s terrace.

Will pours himself another glass of wine. Before he can return to his work, he’s distracted by a flash of white.  It’s too hot on the terrace apparently and Mindy’s pulled off her white shirt and dropped it on the deck.  She leans back against the plush pillows of the chaise. The red tank top she’s wearing under the shirt looks like it’s painted on.  As he watches, she raises her book and the edge of the tank top pulls up over her belly revealing a narrow band of fair, freckled skin.  He feels his cheeks flush and his mouth go dry. How embarrassing. What is he, a teenager? He looks back down at his laptop and tries to ignore her, but he can’t. fucking. concentrate.

He looks back across the courtyard at Monaco. He can see the red highlights in her long dark hair where the sun hits it. Her book must be boring because she’s set it down beside the chair. He watches her drain her wine and stretch out with one arm over her eyes and the other over her head.  She’s still for a moment and then shifts against the pillows restlessly. With her left arm still over her eyes, she draws her right hand down her neck and over her breasts. Will is suddenly, painfully, hard. 

He drops his hand to his lap and presses against the ache through the fine linen trousers. He gasps as he sees the girl close her fingers around her nipple through the thin material of her tank top.  She slides her hand lower, over her belly, her hip, her thigh.

Doesn’t she know that everyone can see her? _(or… can everyone see her?)_ Maybe his terrace gives him a unique vantage point…that’s she’s not aware of.  ( _god, I should not be watching this._ ) Everything seems so dizzy. Will swallows half the wine in his glass, fingers tapping nervous against the stem. Strange. The wine tastes strange today. Or does it taste strange every day? He can’t remember.

Will is so intent on watching the girl, and pretending not to watch her, on managing his rising vertigo ( _it’s this heat, this fucking heat_ ), that he doesn’t hear the delicate little footsteps behind him. Lithe slender arms wrap around Will’s shoulders and cold, soft lips press playfully against his neck. He starts violently and twists around.

She lets go of his shoulders and steps back, smiling. Her eyes are completely black, as they sometimes are when she visits him, but her throat is not bleeding, as it often is. Usually she wears the jeans and jacket she died in, but not today. Today she wears a loose and flowing white sundress. ( _obvious. obvious. why not carry lilies too while you’re at it?)_ At that thought, he can suddenly smell the lilies, cloying, or are they lilacs? No. It’s lilacs. Just lilacs in the pot on the terrace with the girl, the girl with the long dark hair and the unbroken throat.

“Hi, Will,” Abigail laughs. “Did I scare you?”

 “A place wasn’t made for you in this world, Abigail,” Will whispers in a voice that is somewhere between sorrow and a ward against evil. He is unaware that he is speaking aloud.

He glances up at her again. Her eyes are blue. Then brimming black. For a heart stopping moment she is Alana, choking and broken in the rain. Then she is herself again, looking at him with terrible fondness. The wind, which has risen out of nowhere, pulls the white sundress against her body, outlining her like a forgotten goddess on a temple wall, Nyx or Hemera maybe. She turns against the sun and she is briefly backlit, more shadow than girl. “Oh god, Abby,” Will mutters softly, taking his glasses off again as if to banish her.

“I like it when you call me that, Will.” Her voice is raspy with the memory of Hannibal’s curved silver blade.

I miss you, he thinks, helplessly. ( _i loved you. i love you.)_   “Um. “ He clears his throat. “What are you doing here?” ( _yes, right, a totally normal question)_

“What are _you_ doing here, Will?” Abby counters.

Will turns back to the courtyard. If he is calm, if he ignores her, she will go away. “I was just…daydreaming, Abby.” ( _daydreaming._ _i must be daydreaming._ _go away, abby. i don’t want you right now.)_

Abby leans forward out of the sun and kisses him behind the ear. A snaky shiver runs down his back. She is his darkest desire, hidden far beneath every other dark desire Hannibal has already mined, and refined, and claimed as his own.

“Daydreaming, huh?”  She whispers against his skin. She stands behind him and puts her cool right hand briefly over his where it still rests in his lap. “What were you daydreaming about?”

 “What? Nothing! Why?”

 “… because you’re touching yourself?”

Will flinches. “No. I mean yes. It’s not...” _(when did I start taking to myself again?)_

He looks up at her, haloed by the sun. She could be anyone. No one. St. Abigail, patron of lilies and last chances. She looks at him curiously as he moves his hand quickly to his side. “You’re blushing!”

He can feel his sun chapped skin reddening under her amused gaze.  “No, I’m not!”

“You are!  You don’t have to be embarrassed, you know. It’s totally natural. Hannibal said. And he’s a doctor, so he should know.” Her tinkling chilly laugh again. _(hannibal said?) “_ I didn’t mean to interrupt, Will. I just wanted to come out and say hi and get a little fresh air. It’s so stuffy in this place.” She looks out across their courtyard and breathes deeply of sweet summer air that she does not need and cannot nourish her.

She wavers like water on glass, but before she can dissipate entirely, her attention catches on the girl across the courtyard, still idly caressing her body. Abigail looks back at Will sharply with a knowing little smirk far too old for her face. It’s a look she’s borrowed from Hannibal, no doubt. She is a little girl clomping around in Daddy’s shoes. Will bares his teeth briefly at her in a sickening grin and raises an eyebrow. ( _i could teach you everything you need to know to wear that look honestly, abby. … jesus where did_ _that come from?)_

“I see,” she says. “No wonder you’re blushing, Will. 

Abigail circles around behind Will again and wraps her arm across his chest. She drops her voice and whispers in his ear. “I think you’ve been watching that girl and touching yourself. What were you thinking about?”

“Who? Monaco?” He waves generally in the girl’s direction.

“Yes. And it’s Maggie. Not Monaco.  Hannibal met her on the metro last week.”

“Where did I get Monaco then?”

“I have no idea. And you’re stalling.” She curls her finger around his ear, caressing his skin. “Tell me what you were thinking about,” she demands.

“Nothing.  I just.  I was just wondering what she’s thinking about.”

“I can tell you that.”

“You can?”

“Yes,” she purrs. “Why don’t you keep going and I’ll tell you?”

“What?”

“Keep going,” she says, stroking his chest. She puts his right hand back in his lap. “Touch yourself and I’ll tell you what she’s thinking about.”

He swallows audibly. “How do you know what she’s thinking about?”

“I can tell by how she’s touching herself.”

( _what do the dead know?_ _you don’t know anything anymore, abigail. you’re six feet under a blanket of good minnesota soil.)_ He inhales as if to voice this thought and so puff out this wretched ghost, this fever dream born of heat, and irritation, and spoiled wine, but then stops. Can’t he have this? Just for a moment? He wants to feel his way cautiously through this Abby-shaped hole in the world and share her sweet and easy peace.

“You can’t know that, Abby,” Will says aloud.

“Sure I can.  I can at least make a good guess at what she’s thinking by the way she uses her body.”

Abigail puts her hand over Will’s again and presses their joined fingers against his flagging erection.  She wraps her other hand in his hair and tugs his head back, bites him with her sharp little teeth. “Come on, Will, let’s play a game.”

Will relaxes back as Abigail pulls his hair and squeezes him though his pants with her blissfully cold fingers. “Ok, Abby,” he sighs.

Abigail starts talking. ( _or am i talking? am i talking to myself?)_ “The sun and the wine are making Maggie feel sleepy and syrupy,” Abby begins.  “Her body’s tingly all over. See the slow, light way she’s caressing herself? She’s still considering- will it be fast, just about the feeling of her fingers on her clit, or will she draw it out, spin a story her hands can follow?”

Will is watching Maggie touch herself as Abigail narrates in a slow honey tone.

Will sees Maggie drop her left hand to her breast and slide her right hand up along her cheek, caressing her own skin.  She presses her thumb against her lips. Will watches, his vision slightly blurred without his glasses.

“Oh, good. She’s gonna take her time. “

“How can you possibly know that?” Again he thinks, what do the dead know?

“Watch her touching her mouth, her face. Now she’s pressing her lips to the inside of her arm. She’s definitely imagining someone touching her, kissing her.”

Maggie slips the tip of her thumb into her mouth, drops her head back, and lifts her hips sharply.

“Ooh. I think she’s with a boy who’s a little rough,” Abigail says. She sounds delighted.

“I’m pretty sure Maggie’s married to a woman, Abby,” Will retorts, as though logic has a place at this table.

“So?”

“So why do you think she’s thinking about a man?”

“Because of the way she’s sucking the tip of her thumb and pulling her own mouth open.  It’s kinda like what I used to do when I touched myself and thought about sucking your cock.”

He turns to look at her, shocked. “You never did, Abby! Don’t say that!”

“Yes, I did.” She puts her hand against his still unblemished cheek and turns his head back towards Maggie. “You’re beautiful, Will. You’re beautiful and I wanted you. I wanted you to touch me, and kiss me, and just…everything. Hannibal said it would be ok. Once we left together. That you would take care of me. ( _hannibal said?_ ) Keep watching that girl, ok, Will? And listen. Are you still listening?”

For a moment she sounds like herself again, young and uncertain, not this changeling. Will wants to gather her up and cradle her in his arms, his surrogate daughter. ( _i wanted to protect you._ ) But his blood is up and they haven't killed anyone since they’ve been in Venice, and Will needs this. He needs it. He needs her, Hannibal’s darkling child. And his.

 “Yes, Abby. I’m listening. I’m listening to you.”

“When I was in my bed, Will, at the hospital, I would press my fingers to my lips when I touched myself and think about sucking you off.” Her vulgar words clash with the light pleasant lift of her voice.  “That’s how I know what Maggie’s thinking about now.”

Before Will can consider this confession too closely, a distracting, clacking ribbon of sound starts to run through Abigail’s story and she stops abruptly, like the last frame in a reel of film.  He can see the sky through her. Will blinks, lustdrunk and dazed. He hears footsteps. The new shape that has appeared on his left is much bigger than Abigail, darker. He eclipses Abigail. He eclipses everything. Will can smell garlic and thyme and sweet wine and something animal that pulls like a fishhook in his gut. He feels far away phantom pain and a thin arc of blood spilling down his side. “Hannibal?”

“Hello, Will.” Hannibal’s gaze rakes over the unfinished monograph, the half-finished wine. “Having trouble concentrating again?”

“No. I was just talking…” Will stops himself. He cannot tell Hannibal that he was talking to Abby. That there’s something wrong with him. Or, something more wrong than whatever it is in him that loves Hannibal and the utter ruin they will make of each other.

“Has Abigail come to visit again, Will?”

“What?”

Hannibal's mouth tightens minutely in momentary irritation at repeating himself. “Has Abigail come to visit? You were talking about her in your sleep this morning.”

“I was? What did I say?” Will asks cautiously.

“You asked her to come closer because you couldn’t hear her. Then you said you felt like you were talking to her shadow…”

“…suspended on dust,” Will finishes. 

“Yes.”

“Anything else?”

Hannibal pauses, considering. 

 “Tell me what I said.” Will is struggling to get up, but the terrace seems to be sliding. He sags back in the chair, fists clenching.  “Hannibal, did you drug the wine?”

“A mild sedative only,” Hannibal answers with perfect calm. “To help you relax so you can explore these visitations. You’ve been very tense lately, Will. I understand, of course. We haven't killed anyone…”

“…since we’ve been in Venice,” Will finishes Hannibal’s sentence again. ( _wasn’t i just thinking that?_ _what order are these things happening in?)_

“Yes.” Hannibal's eyes narrow slightly, the only betrayal of his deep fascination with Will's confusion. 

Hannibal drags a chair behind Will’s and wraps his arm around Will’s chest, rests his chin on Will’s shoulder. His expression is mild, contemplative. Will can feel the soft heat of Hannibal’s breath against his neck. The nowhere wind is rising again. Hannibal strokes his fingers along Will's collarbone. Back and forth. It's hypnotic, like snake-charming. “Will,” Hannibal whispers, lifting the catch of Will’s mind, “let go.”

As Will leans back, he feels Hannibal’s fingers start scratching over his chest, pinching and twisting his nipples through his shirt.  He moans and shifts in the chair. He loves the way Hannibal hurts him when he gets like this. Hannibal is vicious in his restlessness. Will wants Hannibal to take him back inside, wants to ask if he’ll tie him up and fuck him again like the first time. Fuck him until he’s bruised and hollow. Free, if only for a moment. He starts to ask for this, to beg if Hannibal needs him to, but Hannibal closes his hand over Will’s mouth.  “No,” Hannibal says. “Just listen.”

Will groans deep in his chest. Abigail spools back to life when Hannibal stops Will’s voice and Will can feel her cool fingers moving through Hannibal’s, digging into the muscles of his chest. There are means of persuasion other than violence, he thinks bitterly. Hannibal takes his hand off Will’s mouth.

“I am listening,” Will says. “Please don’t stop, Hannibal ( _abigail_ ).”

“We won’t stop if you’re good, Will,” Abigail whispers.

Hannibal picks up the thread of Abigail’s story. “When I saw this girl that you’ve been watching, Will, she said her wife was going away for work this week. Perhaps she waits until her wife is gone to indulge herself in these fantasies.”

“Maybe she’s never been with a boy. Maybe she wants to know what it would be like, to suck some beautiful boy’s thick cock,” Abigail teases. Her teeth bite down on the hard edges of her obscenities.

Across the courtyard, Maggie slides a hand under her shirt, cups her breast, and squeezes. With her other hand, she cups her jaw and opens her mouth. She runs her thumb over her lips, sucks it into her mouth again and flicks her tongue against the tip. She’s rubbing her thighs together under her skirt and rolling her head back and forth.

“See, Will. She wants him. She wants her boy to rub his cock against her lips, pull her mouth open and then push it inside,” Abigail whispers as she drags her fingernails across the new scars on Will’s shoulder. He hisses, pulls away.

“Is that what you wanted when you thought about Will? When you touched yourself as she’s doing, Abigail?” ( _is hannibal talking to Abby now or am I only talking to myself?)_

“Yes! That’s why I know what she wants." Abigail says with authority. “She wants him to take her mouth and make her suck him.”

Will startles at this image and all its implications. Then he feels Hannibal unbuttoning his trousers and tugging them open.

“Hannibal, no! People will see!”

“No one will see, Will. Lift up. Take them off.  No one has the right angle to see us here. Just like no one has the right angle to see Maggie there… except us. Perhaps she knows we can see her. Perhaps she’s doing this for your benefit. Maybe she is thinking of you as you are thinking of her.”

Will’s hand jerks reflexively on himself and he moans.

Abigail grins at Will’s sudden eagerness. “Come on, Will. Pull your boxers down over your cock. I wanna watch you jerk off while you watch her.”

“Language, Abigail,” Hannibal says mildly. ( _hannibal says? who’s having this delusion anyway?)_

“Sorry!” Abigail says, smirking, without a shred of apology.

Will does as Abby directs anyway. He lifts his hips, lets Hannibal pull his pants and his boxers down exposing him shamefully to Abby’s wide, appraising eyes. Will wraps his hand around his cock and pulls the foreskin back over the swollen head. He is wet with pre-come. His palm and fingertips are calloused, rough on his sensitive skin. His head falls back sharply against the chair. “Fuck.”

“Yes,” Hannibal says, encouraging him. “Slower though. Slower, Will. I want you to come when she comes.”

“Oh, yes,” Abigail breathes, enamored of this suggestion. “Like you’re there with her, making her come with you.” Her voice feels low and shaky on his skin.

“ohmygod, Abby,” Will breathes.

The three of them watch as Maggie takes her right hand away from her mouth and slides it down the outside of her thigh and then up under her long skirt. She arches her back. Her lips are parted.

“He’s cupping her pussy now,” Abigail says confidently, “the boy she’s dreaming about.” “His big hand feels amazing. His palm and fingertips are calloused, rough on her sensitive skin.”

( _what do the dead know? or am I the one who knows? empathy or madness?)_

Will is panting now and his resistance to the bizarre turn the day has taken is nearly gone. The story Abigail and Hannibal are spinning is tangled with glimpses of Maggie’s hands on her own body and the feeling of Abigail’s small, cool hands all over him. “Is this your fantasy or hers?” he asks her.

She smiles against his neck and pinches both his nipples hard. “Maybe both.”

A river of images, of every time he’s ever touched her, streams behind his eyes- recast now by her dark confessions. ( _taking your hands in the hospital greenhouse, covering the first deep gash in your throat, mounting you on antlers. oh god piercing your body with bone hooks_ ).

Will bucks under Abby’s cruel fingers and has to stop himself from asking her to take him inside and force him to his knees. Asking her to tangle her fingers in his hair, pull his face against her pussy, and use his mouth to make her come. But he doesn’t. He wants this strange new experience more than he wants to suffer and beg for her. For Hannibal. For now anyway.

They can see Maggie lifting her hips against her hand. She closes her thighs but then pushes them apart and braces the right leg open against the arm of the chaise with her forearm. Her dark hair sparks in the sun as she tosses her head.

“Her pussy is so wet and tender,” Abigail sighs running her hand over Will’s where it circles his cock. “She wants his fingers inside her, but she’s shy about asking.”

“You or she, Abigail, are shy about asking?” Hannibal inquires, curious.

“Maybe both, she breathes again. “He has to hold her legs open with his hands to give her what she wants.”

“oh god,” Will moans.

“Her fantasy boy pushes the tip of one finger inside her and feels how tight she is." Abby offers. "She lifts her hips up and spreads her legs wider. He takes that invitation and pushes all the way in. His finger is thick and rough inside her.  He feels her body flutter around it.”

As Abigail talks, time slows and stretches. Will feels the light flicker on his face as the clouds cross the sun on the running wind. He can smell the lilacs from Maggie’s porch, the daisies Hannibal put on the deck earlier, the red wine on the table. He feels Abigail’s ( _hannibal’s?)_ breathing go ragged as she ( _he?_ ) turns herself on with her story. He feels Hannibal’s strong hands on his shoulders, his chest. Abigail’s cold insubstantial fingertips carding though his hair. He feels his own warmer hand on his cock, moving at the tortuously slow pace Abby and Hannibal have set for him. His pleasure ebbs and flows, breaking over him in waves. His eyes drift closed as he dreams inside their fantasy.

Hannibal rests his chin on Will’s shoulder again and wraps his powerful arm around Will’s chest, pinning him against the chair. Observe or participate, Hannibal thinks, then decides to push Will a little harder. He starts kissing and licking Will’s neck as he picks up the story. Biting into Will’s flesh between words.

 “Tell us, Will, if you were there with her, if you were sitting alongside her, holding one of her smooth thighs back and sliding your finger inside her body, as Abigail said, feeling her tighten around it, what would you do?”

Will relaxes in the cage of Hannibal’s body, eyes closed, stroking himself slowly. “I would kiss her,” he answers without hesitation.

“Of course you would. You’re so good with your mouth, Will.”

At this, Will turns to Hannibal and kisses him fiercely. Hannibal’s mouth is soft and yielding, sweet with the wine he must have taken from the bottle before he drugged it.  Will flicks his tongue over Hannibal’s lower lip, sucking it into his mouth. He digs his fingers into Hannibal’s arm, pulling him closer. Hannibal moans against him, cupping Will’s cheek and rubbing his fingertips over the salt and pepper stubble. Will melts into Hannibal, then moves to stand up, to take Hannibal in his arms, wondering if he should try to make it to their bedroom or if Hannibal would let Will fuck him on the floor of the study just inside the open terrace doors. He wonders passingly if Abby would stay to watch them.

“No,” Hannibal says suddenly, closing his hand around Will’s wrist and pinning it to the arm of the chair. Will feels the small bones grinding together and pulls reflexively against his grip. Hannibal’s skin is flaming hot. “I want to finish this game,” Hannibal says.

Will groans and drops back.

Hannibal smiles tightly. “You kiss her, Will?” Hannibal prompts.

“Yes. I plunge my free hand into her long hair and open her mouth with my tongue. I kiss her deeply, running my tongue over her teeth.  I fist my hand in her hair and hold her still for me.”

Hannibal is tangling his fingers in Will’s curls. “Does she like that?”

  
“Yes. I can feel her responding to me. She’s getting wetter around my finger as I move it inside her and stroke her clit with my thumb. She’s so hot. I slide my finger out of her and suck it clean while she watches. I want her to watch. I want her to see how good she tastes. I pull her towards me and peel off her top. Then I lay her back against the pillows.”

“Kiss her again, Will.” Abigail urges.

 “First, I want to touch her. I want to watch her feel my hands on her. I run my fingers along her cheek and down her neck. I caress her breasts and cup them in my hands, pressing her nipples with the tips of my thumbs.”

Heat coils in Will’s belly as he watches Maggie twist under her own hands, seeming to respond to his part of this story. He can almost feel the curve of her full breasts filling his hands. He thinks briefly, helplessly, of Alana again, whole and alive, but when he blinks, Maggie is Abigail.

He looks down and his hands are on Abigail’s small high breasts, her dappled skin. ( _was maggie ever anyone but abigail?)_ He glances across the courtyard over Abby's shoulder. The townhouse looks dilapidated, overexposed. But the chaise is still there and the lilac is bright purple in its pot. He still sees the wine and the books. Then his Abby, solid and in living color, is stretched out on the chaise with her hands running all over her body. Her white dress is pulled down under her breasts, pushed up around her thighs. She is bare beneath it. Will turns to Hannibal in a panic. “Hannibal?  I can’t. I can’t do this. It’s too much.”

Hannibal shushes him, gentles Will with kisses, caresses his hair, his cheek. “You can cut all the flowers, Will, but you cannot stop the Spring from coming.” He pauses. “Look again. Listen.  Let go.”

Will looks at Abby across the courtyard again then closes his eyes. He is flinching from Hannibal, shaking his head. “No, Hannibal. Please.”

“Yes,” Hannibal insists. “Yes.” Hannibal brushes his fingers through Will’s hair. “Tell me, Will, can you feel her? Our Abigail? Her skin is so warm from the sun and her nipples are hard under your fingers. She wanted this. You want this. Isn’t that so, Will?” Will leans his head back against Hannibal. ( _yes_ ) He sighs in surrender. “Yes. I do.” “I feel her, Hannibal. I kiss her again. Bite her neck. Taste her sweat on my tongue.”

“She buries her nose in the crook of your neck, inhaling. She loves the smell of you, Will, so different from the everyday boys she knew. She opens her mouth against your throat, tasting you, feeling the sounds of pleasure you make under her lips.”

Will can hear Hannibal running one hand over his own body. The idea that Hannibal is not just twisting him up for his own amusement, as is his wont, but is getting off on this idea himself, is intoxicating. Will wants to taste Hannibal suddenly, to thank him for this, for pushing him relentlessly through this black fantasy. He wants to pull down Hannibal’s loose cotton trousers and kiss the tip of Hannibal’s dick, force it to the back of his throat and swallow tight around him. But it can wait; he wants to taste Abby more.

“I want to taste her,” Will moans.

“She wants that,” Hannibal agrees. “She wants to feel your mouth on her. She’s curious about what your stubble will feel like against her delicate skin.” ( _how do you know all these things you know, hannibal?_ )

“I kneel beside her on the deck and push the hem of her dress higher, above her waist,” Will says. “I tell her she’s beautiful and that I want her. That I want to taste her. I whisper to her to spread her legs for me. When she does, I slide my hands up her thighs, pushing them wider, kissing her from her knees to the soft little curve of her belly. I press my nose into her pubic hair and slide the backs of my fingers up and down her wet opening.”

Hannibal tilts his head, fascinated. “What does she do, Will?”

“She cards her hands through my hair and pulls. Tilts her hips up, trying to get my mouth right on her.”

“Oh, please,” Abby whispers, from the courtyard, from beside him.

Will pauses.

Hannibal puts his mouth next to Will’s ear, but it is Abby’s soft, wicked voice he hears.  “Oh, please. Please, Will, please?”

 _(oh god. ok_. _i’ll play._ ) “Please what? Tell me what you need, pretty girl,” Will asks his black-eyed phantom, grinning up at her from between her pale legs.

 “Please put your mouth on me, Will,” Abby begs. She has both hands buried in his unruly hair now.

“How can I resist when you ask so nicely?” he whispers. Will moves down further between Abby’s legs and opens his mouth over her clit. He glances up as his tongue slides over her. She smells like iron and ocean water. ( _when I see the sea once more)_

“How do I taste, Will?

His mouth is shockingly full of blood for an instant. Will blinks rapidly as if to clear this vision. Before he can choke, the blood is gone, replaced with her sweet salt. “You’re delicious, Abby,” Will reassures her.  “You taste like the sea.” Will presses his tongue hard against Abby’s delicate flesh. Running the tip of it along her lips, flicking it against her clit.

Hannibal is still talking, but his voice is fading. Faintly, Will can feel Hannibal spreading his thighs wide and caressing his skin. Running his fingertips up under his shirt and across his belly.

Will groans and lifts Abby’s leg across his back, opening her up for him. “I want to make you come. I want to feel you come under my tongue, Abby.” He laps harder, sucking her clit, trying for what she likes best. Abby squirms under his worship. Will braces Abby’s hips so she can’t pull back and keeps licking tight circles around her clit. Abby is bucking against him mindlessly. ( _that’s my good girl)_ Will feels her press her thighs on either side of his face. He is drowning in her. He presses one finger gently inside her. And oh, god, she is coming then, crying out for him. ( _yes abby,_ _come on. come for me, sweetheart_ )

 “Oh, Will. Oh, yes,” Abby moans. Her voice is everywhere.

Abby drops her head back as her climax ebbs. Shaking, relaxing back into the pillows. Will picks his head up. His mouth is slick with her. From a vast distance, Hannibal traces his thumb over Will’s full lower lip.

Will moves up Abby’s body and she pulls his head down to kiss him. She plunders his mouth, clutches his back and pulls him closer. Her breasts press against his chest as he leans into her.  “She’s licking herself off my mouth,” Will murmurs for Hannibal’s benefit, flicking his tongue over Hannibal’s thumb.

Abby controls this kiss and Will lets her, gives in to her gladly. She watches Will stroking himself out of the corner of her eye. “I want to touch you, Will. Please? I want to know what you feel like.”

Will tosses his head and groans. He wraps his hand around the base of his dick and squeezes hard to keep from coming.

“Of course you can touch me, Abby. Of course. Anything you want.”  Will takes Abby’s hand in his and puts it over his heart. Their hands trail down his body together until Abby's cold, slender fingers wrap around his dick. Will pulls his own hand back as Abby strokes him a few times lightly, then harder, more certain.

Will leans his head against her as she jerks him off. Abby’s face is flushed, her pupils blown liquid black. She is kissing him everywhere she can reach, twining her legs around him, one arm thrown around his neck. Desperate to be near him. Her mouth is parted and she’s panting.

“Stop, Abby. Just stop for a sec.”

“Is it ok? Did I do something wrong?” Abby asks, drawing back a little.

He holds her tight, kissing her throat, stroking her sides. “You feel amazing, Abby. Your hands on me are so good. But I don’t want to come yet. Not yet. I want to feel you. I want to be inside you.”

Will’s hand slows and he opens his eyes briefly. He sees Hannibal watching him intently, licking his lips. “I’m so close to coming. I had to tell her to stop,” Will explains.

“Tell me more, Will.” Hannibal whispers, his accent grown heavier. "See."

Will’s eyes flutter closed again. The story that Hannibal has been weaving for him, _with_ him, is ( _sickwrong_ ) all consuming- that Abby would want him like this, that she would want him for the bare fact of his masculinity, for the way he smells, for the sound of his moaning; that she is curious about the feel of his stubble against her skin; that she is excited, nervous at the idea of spreading herself for his hands, for his mouth, of taking his cock inside her.

It's almost too much. How much longer can he hold out?

 Will is stroking himself more intensely now, panting, biting his lip. “Abby is so ready, Hannibal. So slick and swollen after her orgasm.”

“I'm all wet,” Abby agrees, whispering against Will’s parted lips. “I need you. I want to feel your big, beautiful cock inside me.”

Will kneels on the chaise and opens Abby’s thighs wide with his knees. He captures her mouth, swallows her moaning.

Abby is writhing and twisting, hopelessly spread around Will’s strong thighs, the weight of his body holding her down. “Press the head of your cock against my pussy, Will. Please? I wanna feel it.” Will takes himself in hand and slides the tip of his dick over her.

“Oh, it feels so big and hot, Will,” Abby sighs, trembling.

Will closes his eyes briefly, shaking his head. “Fuck, Abigail. Don’t. God, these things you say.”

She runs the backs of her hands over his face, brushes his mouth with hers. It’s strangely chaste given the circumstances. Her eyelashes flutter against his cheek. “Oh, Will. I want you so much.

“Can you make it good for her, Will?” Hannibal whispers in the background.

Abby shifts under Will and bites her lip, uncertain suddenly, as if in response to Hannibal's question. “Be careful with me ok, Will?”

“Yes, he moans, “yes, I will.”

Will is engulfed, utterly enveloped by Hannibal’s fantasy.  “You don’t need to be nervous, Abby. Only pleasure, I promise.” Will kisses her neck, sucks tiny roses into her scarred skin, and closes his teeth on her throat. Abby is shaking in his arms, wanting and afraid of wanting.  Will pauses, his face flushed. He is struggling for control, feeling Abby tremble under him. Here is the very darkest part.

Hannibal pushes against this final resistance. “Close your eyes, Will. Let go.” And after a brief moment of intense conflict, he does. ( _contrapasso)_

 “You were afraid of me the last time you saw me,” Will says to her finally. "But you don’t need to be afraid of me now. I’d never hurt you. God, you’re so wet for me, Abby. I’ll slide in so easily.”

“I want to feel it, Will,” Abby moans, eager for him again. “I’m ready. I’m so ready.”

Will slides his cock over her swollen clit again and again then presses forward with steady pressure against the core of unbelievable slippery heat until she starts to open around him. He seals his lips to hers, pressing his tongue into her mouth. He pushes his cock inside her and she cries out as he penetrates, digs her fingers into his back. 

Will pulls her right leg up over his hip and rocks in and out a little bit, stretching her gently. He waits for her to want more, to ask for more. She breaks their kiss, looks up at him, pale blue eyes swimming with tears. ( _oh god, abby_ ) “Abby?” he whispers. “Is it all right? Am I hurting you?”

She starts to nod and his heart stops. Then she shakes her head and pulls his mouth down to hers again. She pants against his lips. “Feels like I‘m burning up, but it’s so good, Will. You’re so good.”

“Tell me when you want more, sweetheart.” Will murmurs against Abigail’s mouth, wrapping his arms around her, rocking her softly under him. He leans his cheek against her hair, breathes in the smell of lilies and stone. His heart is pounding, breaking.

Abigail wraps her legs around his waist and leans her forehead against his bicep. “Oh, I want you, Will. I wanted you so much. I need…” She trails off, lost in the feeling of him inside her. 

“What do you need, Abby?” Will whispers as Abby cants her hips up against him trying to take more of his cock into her. 

“More, Will. I need more.” When she asks for it, when she says please again and again, Will pushes his dick in deep and holds it there, throbbing. Will’s breath is harsh in his throat. He holds Abby to him, feeling her spasm around him. He kisses her forehead.  He strokes her hair and cups her cheek. He rains little kisses over her face. Then he holds her hips and presses her clit against the base of his cock. “God I want you to come again, Abby. I want you to come all over me. ”

Will can hear Hannibal moaning desperately now. He’s still holding Will back against him with one hand spread over Will’s chest but the other is under his clothes, stroking his own cock.

“I can smell you.” Will growls at Hannibal, momentarily and utterly present with him.  “God you smell good. I want to hear you come.” Hannibal pauses for breath. “Yes. When Abigail does, Will. When you do.”

Hannibal twists one of Will’s nipples delightfully hard. Will pulls against the pain. “Goddamn it, Hannibal! Stop this. Please just let me come. Please. Please. Please.” Will arches his back, his hand moves helplessly on his cock.

“Is Abigail close, Will?” Hannibal pants, ignoring Will's pleas. “Is she begging to come as well?”

Will hears Abby whimper in the background in response to Hannibal's question, splitting Will's attention again. “I want you to fuck me harder. Please. Make me take it all, Will. Fuck me. Oh please fuck me.”

Hannibal’s voice dims and Will imagines he is thrusting into Abby relentlessly. She is matching his pace, snapping her hips, taking him deep. “Reach down and rub your clit, Abby. Come on, rub yourself while I fuck you. I want to feel you come.” He hears her moaning sweetly against his cheek, feels her quaking around him. Will encircles Abby’s thighs with bruising force as she comes and he rides her hard though her orgasm, magnifying it. “Yeah," Will sighs. "That’s my good girl.”

Hannibal watches Will’s eyes tracking randomly beneath his eyelids. He is shaking, crying out for Abby, for Hannibal.  “Is Abigail coming for you? Come with her, Will. Come inside her,” Hannibal commands, scraping hard over Will’s chest with his blunt fingernails.

“Oh, Will. Come in me,” Abby echoes. She throws her head back as he buries himself inside her. Will feels her reach up and close one cold hand tight around his throat and then he is coming hard and grateful, throwing his forearm across his mouth to muffle the sound of his own orgasm as he spills over his hand. He shudders as though he will break apart and there are tears standing in his eyes. ( _i loved you. i love you_ ). Hannibal strokes himself quickly, efficiently, resting his forehead against Will’s shoulder as he follows him over the edge. His body is bent nearly double and he is trembling, trembling. 

A storm is coming, Will thinks, feeling Hannibal shake like a sail in high wind. Finally.

In the end, Hannibal goes boneless, slumped against Will's shoulder, then presses his wet fingers to Will’s mouth. Will sucks them clean. For a long moment Will feels that he may simply start sobbing and never stop. ( _oh hannibal, what is this life?_ ) But Hannibal moves around the chair and kisses him quiet. Tastes himself on Will’s mouth. Gentles him with the softest press of his lips. Hannibal strokes his cheek then. Cradles Will’s shoulders in his strong arms and whispers in his ear, “beautiful, clever boy. Just let go.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, fannibal family! I've never published any fanfic (and this is unbetaed). Generally, I write it only for my own amusement, but I've been so ridiculously inspired by this beautiful show and I've read so much amazing work here that I felt compelled to make a contribution. This started as fairly straightforward Hannibal/Will sniping and sex, but took a hard right to dark city.


End file.
